Fiction-Escape
Exerpt from "Escape" The three shadows slunk along the edge of the buildings like rats in an alley. Oil lamps yet to be extinguished guttered in the faint breeze that blew through the city casting a faint haze of light like tiny islands in an endless see of night. Careful to avoid the islands, they cut down a side alley and huddled beside the remains of a few empty boxes. “What are we going to do?” Shariya’s voice was strained, hoarse. The scream that had earlier crawled out of her throat like the bilious roar of a dragon had all but robbed her of any intelligible sound but a few scratchy whispers. She didn’t think that she could have emitted such a scream but she also didn’t think that she’d ever lose her husband to the Crimson Knights “Quiet,” Harad hissed out in half a whisper. The four instinctively crouched further behind the cover of the boxes. A second after he spoke, a patrol of the armored men, each adorned with the crimson cloak of their Holy Crusade against Magi, marched past the opening of the alley like a squad of ghosts; their stark white tabards fluttering slightly in the breeze. After a moment, Harad, slowly peaked above the edge of the boxes to see if the guards had left the area. With a faint exhale of relief, he was certain that they had passed. “We need to hide,” Shariya urged wrapping the black cloak tightly around her frame to conceal the mint-green nightgown she wore. Her feet were scraped and muddy and bare. There was no time to dress before they escaped. It was her fault that they were being hunted; she couldn’t help but scream as the Inquisitor thrust the tip of his dagger into the throat of her husband, Ranyr. There was no scream from him just a bloody gurgle and he pitched forward onto the brick-paved street. The scream he would not make, she voiced. The knights turned immediately and gave chase. It was a miracle that they were able to get out. A miracle made by the hands of a baker. Ranyr had told her that their neighborhood could be trusted but she never really understood what that meant; until now. As the knights were tossing through their house to find her and her son, she had been helped out of their back window. Harad was as quiet as a cat, helping Jaryth out of the window and down the rope before he lowered her to the street as well. “This way.” Harad instructed and held the shoulder of the young boy to guide him to keep his head down as they continued further into the alley. The bare feet of Shariya and her son slipped on the bricks of the alley as they pushed further and further away from the pools of light and hopefully the Red Guard patrols. They turned right, then left, climbed over a simple fence and then through a hole in a stone wall and eventually ended up on an another block of the city. The lanterns that burned before the entrance of almost every home and shop were often decorated with simple signs that showed its wares with simple silhouettes; a pair of sheers for the tailor, a hammer or anvil for the blacksmith, and so on. Some lanterns held more than just their market sign; some held a secret. Just as Harad’s market sign hung by the front of his shop, there was also a small bell. It was not uncommon for shops to hang bells and things to draw people’s attention. Harad’s bell was of silver, a silver that did not tarnish. The sound was clear and pure and unmistakable to the trained ear. The ringing of the bell was the promise of safety and of hospitality. Now on the opposite block, the three walked along the edge of the buildings to close in on the sound. Joran’s family had been in the Alchemy business for three generations. His father’s father had moved to the city and started a small shop to make special inks and dyes. Over time, their shop had grown and many an adventurer came to rely upon their family’s quality. Though not from the Kels originally, they had become accepted within the community over the years. When buildings went derelict and forgotten, their family had renovated them and brought businesses to fill them. They kept their neighborhood from becoming run down and would never permit the darker elements from setting up shop. They helped pay the wages of the neighborhood watch to keep prostitutes and myst-users away. Joran’s family was a pillar of the community; one that had a silver bell hanging from their market sign. It was late and most of the family was asleep, but Joran was up finishing the last of the inventory. A new shipment of raw materials had come in late and he wanted to be sure that it was put away correctly before the start of business tomorrow. His father had always said that it wasn’t proper to leave creates in the shop when you were open. The wind outside kept their bell tinkling occasionally but it was just a faint, background sound as he counted the earthenware jars of dried buck root and silver leaf. As he unpacked the last of the jars he realized that the tinkling of the bell wasn’t random; there was a pattern to it. Two chimes, then one and then the last a few seconds later. A call for aid. Stepping out from behind the crates, he thumped the meat of his fist on the doorframe that lead back to their living quarters and slowly approached the front door. He knew his mother would hear the sound and awaken the others. With a cautious click of the door’s lock, he opened the thick wooden door and let three people into their shop and closed it quickly. “We are all travelers far from home.” Harad spoke softly. “How long is your journey,” Joran asked as his mother stepped into the room. “Long,” Harad responded. It was a simple coded exchange of phrases but it was enough that Joran understood what was happening. “Have you supplies for your journey?” Joran’s mother asked. “No. And they are unfamiliar with the path.” Harad tilted his head towards Shariya and her son. “Who are you?” Shariya asked, her voice slowly recovering from the earlier stress. “Friends,” Joran’s mother replied. Joran’s mother was head of their house after his father died. She was wise in her years and would make most of the decisions for the family since she was the eldest now. “I am Elysha,” her voice was perfectly pitched to encourage the woman and her son to relax. She doubted that they would realize the technique, but felt that they would benefit from easing the stress upon their bodies. Shariya glanced over to the woman who strode into the room with the grace and poise of a queen. Almost as though she could see the crown upon her head, she bowed respectfully and tapped her son on the back of the shoulder to get him to do the same. “How very kind of you to come for a visit,” Elysha smiled and walked towards them to tap them on the shoulder to acknowledge their bow. Shariya raised her head but her eyes did not want to focus upon the woman’s face. She wanted Ranyr here, now. The flood of imagery hit her once more and she saw him being stabbed again. Anger knotted her stomach and she focused her eyes upon the woman’s face with a grim determination. “What is going on? Who are you?” Shariya was going to get some answers. “Yanyra, tea.” Elysha called out to her son’s wife knowing that she would be awake but not enter the room unless called. She was a very well-mannered young woman and an excellent choice for her son. “What was your husband’s name?” Elysha asked taking a seat at some chairs inside the shop. With a casual gesture of her hand she invited the young woman to join her and enjoy a bit of tea. “Ranyr,” she answered with a frustrated snap to her voice. Her son, Yoshen, walked to stand beside his mother quietly. He was uncertain what to think with all the things that had happened to him since the sun went down. The two women spoke for a while, and Joran found clothes and shoes for the mother and son. Harad kept an ear to the door and an eye to his charges. He wasn’t expecting to run a rescue mission tonight but if the message was true, the Malthariod would want them kept safe. Shariya was given enough information to relax her mind if only slightly. These people were friends of her husband. He had asked them to look out for her and their son should anything happen to him, but how did they know of the danger? Coded messages and secret meetings. There was a whole side to her husband that she didn’t know and it both angered and scared her. “They’re here,” Jaryth whispered beside his mother. “What, who’s here?” Shariya asked turning to the boy. Harad sprung to the door and Joran peeked out through the small hole in the wall. The house went quiet. From outside, there was the sound of chain mail shirts brushed across steal breast plates like the sound of a thousand angry metal crickets. Elysha arose from her chair and looked into the eyes of the boy as though she were looking for a needle in the dark. There was something there; something elusive. For the briefest moment she saw a spark of clarity and understanding in the boy. He was aware and at such a young age. “Take them below,” she instructed with the faintest whisper just as someone pounded on the front door. Without hesitation, Joran took Shariya’s hand and lead her through the rear doorway and into the back of the house. The boy was quickly on the heels of his mother with Harad watching the tail of their escape. “They’re at the back,” Yoshen muttered as they moved down the long central hall. “What?” Harad asked as they paused at an intersection in the hall. “This way, “Joran urged and lead them into the kitchen. The wealth of the family was shown in the details of their kitchen. The room was stocked with jars of herbs and vegetables with a large, stone-topped table against the far wall. In the corner opposite the table was a hooded fireplace and raised hearth; much better than trying to cook in a permanent stoop over an open fire. The whole of the room was paved with large flat bricks made to look like cut stones. Joran moved to the back corner of the room and fetched a metal hook from beside the kitchen table and inserted it into a hidden niche in one of the large bricks and pried it up to reveal a dark tunnel below. “Down,” he hissed and pointed to the empty blackness below. Harad skirted past the three and with a stepped into the opening to be swallowed up by the tunnel with a swirl of his cloak behind him. Shariya was about to refuse and then she could hear the front door being broke down. She was confused and didn’t know which way to go. The Silver Hand would kill her and her son as soon as they found them; she was sure of that at least. Elysha’s voice could be heard as the guards barked out orders for her to get down. This time she couldn’t relax them with just her words. “Mother, go. She will hold them off.” Yoshen said with a faintly blank look on his face. The boy, barely in his teens, looked to Joran with an expression far too mature for his age and explained, “She said to get Yanyra and the girls and get out through the store room.” “How did you…?” the alchemist asked confusedly. Just then, a Red Guard appeared at the doorway to the kitchen with his sword drawn. He took a step towards them and Joran tossed a vile of purple fluid at him. The guard raised his sword to deflect the object more out of training than of intention. The thin glass shattered on the flat of the blade and the fluid sprayed his face and neck with the hiss of steam. The man's armor did nothing to protect him and he fell to the ground grabbing his face in silent-screams as the skin began to melt away wherever the fluid touched him. After the first, silent exhale, he was able to produce sound before the acid had dissolved his throat entirely. “Go!” He shouted to the woman and her boy and left them in the kitchen to tend to his family. Shariya sat down on the edge of the opening and dangled her feet down into the tunnel. Raising her arms grab hold of Jaryth, she slowly lowered him into the darkness and then slipped herself out of the kitchen. Blackness. Barely any light bled from the kitchen above into the small chamber where she stood. The fall wasn’t too much but enough that she was sure they were at least two staves’ lengths below the floor of the kitchen. She knelt down and felt around for any sign of her son. She was thankful for the shoes Joran had found for her while she and his mother had tea. The floor was rough-cut and she wasn’t sure if she could take more punishment to her bare feet. She heard movement to her left and whispered for her son. “No, it’s me, Harad. Tilt your head back.” “What?” “Just tilt your head back and don’t blink. It will feel cold but it will help,” he explained and put his hands upon her brow to push her hair out of the way. She felt drops of cold water splash into her eye and she immediately slammed them shut. It felt like a drop of water from an ice cycle. He pushed her head back and whispered encouragements to get her to open her eyes once again. With the second splash he turned away from her and began to explain. “They’re cat’s-eye drops. They’ll help you see down here. Just give your eyes a while to adjust.” “Where’s Yoshen? Where’s my son?” She asked as her vision faded from a watery blur to something more focused. “Here,” the boy replied and took his mother’s hand. “I’m fine mother.” She felt better now that she had him back. As her vision improved, she glanced up at the hole in the ceiling above her and could hear the voices of the soldiers in the kitchen. Before she could speak, Harad took her free hand and led her out of the chamber and into one of the tunnels that lead to the right. Where was he taking them? * * * “Report.” The captain ordered as he walked into the kitchen. He had not seen casualties like this on a simple search; six of his men were dead. Six armed soldiers of the Order of the Silver Hand were struck down by what but peasant merchants. The woman that his men had found when they broke down the door to the shop struck down two of them before he even heard their screams. She was armed with only a dagger but it took one of his bowman to put her down and even then it took three shots. He had no idea what kept her alive or what gave her such unholy skill with a blade but he was sure that it was unholy. “The Heretics have fled down the hole, Sir,” the guard reported with a snapped salute. “You two, find the Inquisitor and bring him here.” Captain Doran ordered to the last of his men. “The rest of you watch that hole and find some light.” He wasn’t going to waste a prayer to call forth his own light unless the Inquisitor approved. Stepping on the toes of another captain could get you in trouble with the command. Stepping on the toes of an Inquisitor would get you reassigned. There were still pockets of the rebels in the eastern mountains and getting assigned to hunt them down lead many a captain to his death. “Foreigners,” Doran muttered to himself as he looked around at all the strange foods and items in the kitchen. “No March-family would live this way,” he grumbled as he knocked a jar from the top of the table. As the Inquisitor entered the house, he could feel the tension rise and sour the air. The dead had been covered with blankets but not moved out into the street. Above all, it was his responsibility to maintain the public’s faith in their Order’s absolute rule. It was how they maintained their control over the public and ensured the peace. “You lost them, Captain,” the inquisitor asked. The man’s voice crawled up Doran’s spine like the icy chill of a winter wind. “They escaped down this hole and we waited for your instructions, Sir.” Doran snapped back with he and his men frozen in a rigid posture of attention. “And why have you not followed them, Captain?” The inquisitor asked emphasizing his rank as though he were questioning its permanence. “Because we recovered this, Sir.” The captain held out a small silver broach that his men had recovered from the woman that gave them such a fight. He secretly enjoyed the Inquisitors reaction. The frail figure of a man recoiled from the symbol upon the piece of jewelry as though it were an unholy relic. Whether it was from realization or from some unmanly fear he didn’t care. For once the inquisitor had felt the fear he had inspired in so many. Fear that Doran and his men had to enforce – no matter how they might feel. It was their duty. “Do you know what you’re holding, Captain?” The inquisitor nearly gasped. “Nothing more than what I was told to look for, Sir. Some kind of cult I believe.” “It is the mark of the Spider-Worshippers. It is unclean.” The inquisitor called for his aid to bring the chest. The young man, a few years younger than the captain himself, walked into the kitchen baring a wooden chest the size of a loaf of bread. Adorned with silver filigree of holy symbols and writing, it was the only place safe to store dark items such as the broach and the dagger. “Where is the dagger? “ the Inquisitor asked. Doran placed the small broach into the chest and turned to the frail man. “We recovered no dagger, Sir.” “You are mistaken Captain. Whoever possessed that thing also carried with them a dagger; curved and with flecks of silver along the blade.” “We found no dagger, Sir.” Doran repeated. “Search the house and be quick about it.” The frail man said, reaching over to fish out the last of the hot coals in the cooking hearth with a metal spade. With a flick of his wrist, the coals were tossed into a small stack of straw-filled shipping boxes. The flames grew quickly much to the surprise of the captain. “Sir, what are you doing?” Doran insisted. “Ridding this city of its evil.” “But we can follow them into their tunnel. It can’t be too far. We’ll see where it comes out and arrest them all, Sir.” The inquisitor smirked and glanced towards the hole as the flames grew and licked at the rafters above. “Only a fool would follow a Maltharian down into their tunnels. I am no fool.” The captain and his men searched the house and shop as much as they could before the smoke became too much to breathe and the threat of fire grew too much. The Inquisitor would have forbidden the men from leaving the shop until the dagger was found. Luckily, they found it in the back of the house – though he wasn’t sure how it could have gotten there. He didn’t have time to think about it and was eager to give the frail inquisitor what he wanted. Perhaps one of his men had taken the dagger as a trophy and did not wish to reveal their greed before the might of a Inquisitor of the Crimson Crusade. Thievery was not something that that their Order would permit and the punishments were much more severe than reassignment. Category:Fiction/Maltharius Category:Fiction/South Marches